The Naive and Sentimental Hero
by Random Equinox
Summary: Things aren't always as they seem, be it a disgraced human Spectre being court-martialled, a rogue agent making deals with weapons dealers or a spymaster with a secret agenda. It can be difficult to maintain a sense of hope and optimism in such times, but that doesn't mean it isn't worth the effort.


**The Naïve and Sentimental Hero**

 _Author's Note: This fanfic borrows and adapts a few characters from the Deus Ex video game series and the TV series Chuck and NCIS. It also adapts a certain NCIS character/plot arc. Please consider this your 'here there be spoilers' warning, along with the disclaimer that I claim no ownership of any of the characters from Deus Ex, Chuck, NCIS or Mass Effect._

Hi. My name is Shepard. If you're reading this, you better have the proper security clearance. If you don't, well, congratulations on getting this far and opening a gimungous can of worms. Welcome to running like mad and looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life.

Assuming you're authorized to read this, here's a few things you might have missed, forgotten or conveniently decided to ignore: I became a hero because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time—or the right place at the right time if you believe everything the media said. Then I stumbled onto the fast track to Spectre status, with the added burden of being thefirst human Spectre ever, only to skip the training process when a bunch of alien junk got zapped into my noggin. I went around exploring the galaxy, got even more data clogging up my noodle, discovered the truth about the Protheans and an ancient malevolent force bent on attacking the galaxy on a regular basis, saved the galaxy and was laughed out of Citadel space for my trouble.

Then I died, got resurrected from the grave as a cybernetic ninja zombie by a bunch of pro-human terrorists who I used to kill once in a while, had to investigate a rash of human colony abductions, got black-listed by the Council and reinstated as a Spectre in the same conversation, recruited a whole bunch of allies, helped them out because they were just as screwed up as I was, somehow fell in love with one of the pro-human terrorists—who became less pro-human as the months went by—and saved the galaxy again.

After that, I did a few more odds and ends before saving the galaxy yet another time, but only at the price of sacrificing an entire system and approximately 305 000 lives. Now here's the important part: I did everything humanly possible to try and reach another outcome. When it didn't, I did what I thought was right and turned myself in. To accept responsibility for what had happened and, through my actions, open the way for someone out there to start preparing for the end of the galaxy as we knew it, I turned myself in.

Why is that so important? Because of the delightful farce I found myself mired in.

It took weeks to put me on trial for all my many sins. To select the lawyers and judges and their assistants and the assistant's assistants and so on and so forth. Because why get to the truth when you can put on a show instead? And do it as slowly and as inefficiently as possible? And keep me locked up while they got their act together—except for escorted visits to the mess hall for meals or the gym for the odd bout of exercise. For some reason, they wouldn't let me visit the training range.

When the court-martial began, I was accused of being a lunatic hell-bent on running amok, a nutjob unhinged from too much unlimited power, a traitor, a mass murderer and an all-around horrible person. All within the first hour. Only after that parade would my accusers actually begin going through the actual mission, frequently interrupting to second-guess every decision I made. I'd present my arguments, call up character references and witnesses, and endure examinations and cross-examinations.

And then we'd more or less start all over again from the beginning.

I guess this all sounds like whining and bitching. Like I somehow thought a court martial wasn't called for. Let's be perfectly clear: even though I only stumbled into this situation at the last minute, with virtually no prep time, and had limited resources to make any kind of difference, _none of that_ mitigates the fact that roughly 305 000 lives were lost on my watch. While I was in command and thus was ultimately responsible for the way things played out. There had to be some kind of accountability, and I had no problem with that.

My problem lay in the growing feeling that this was less of a court martial and more of a kangaroo court. There seemed to be very little in the way of judicial impartiality. The prosecution seemed to have unrestricted freedom in terms of the variety of witnesses and experts they could summon and the amount of evidence that was magically unclassified. Not to mention that the judge frequently overruled the defence on seemingly trivial points while allowing the prosecution to get away with, well, anything. Maybe I was mistaken, but it certainly seemed that way.

It also felt like we were treading the same ground ad nauseum. The only exception was that one day when I was accused of being a child molester and a pedophile. It took the collective genius of the judiciary a full eighty-two minutes and five seconds—yes, I counted—before someone finally realized they brought me to the wrong courtroom.

And then there were the times when Senators Andrew Kinsey and Robert Lockhart graced the courtroom with their illustrious presence—individually, of course. If the two of them were there together, their combined ego would reduce the room to smithereens. Somehow, they'd manage to buy or blackmail their way onto the stand. Where they went on and on about how much of a loose cannon I was, all drunk on power. This was what happened when men such as myself ran around the galaxy, accountable to nobody. How this 'regrettable incident' would _never_ happen if they were in charge of the Alliance Select Committee on Intelligence. Oddly enough, they never explained how they would have prevented this tragedy. Nor did they recognize the fact that a Spectre didn't officially answer to the Alliance. They conveniently forgot that the fact that I was present at my own court-martial meant I was being held to account. Most importantly, they completely glossed over the fact that we had never met before and they had never been responsible for any of my past missions or assignments, which meant they had no business being here whatsoever. Details and technicalities do spoil a good show, after all.

This went on and on for days, during which I got a little peeved. As the days turned into weeks, my feelings grew into annoyance. As the weeks turned into months, my feelings had moved on to anger and frustration—not entirely restricted to how I was stuck in here instead of out there with the woman I'd somehow fallen in love with—which somehow manifested as sarcasm and barely-polite statements. Clearly I was getting nowhere. Evidently, all my warnings and pleas were falling on deaf ears. I found myself wishing that I could do _something_ , even if it had nothing to do with the Bahak system or the Viper Nebula or the Reapers. Anything would be better than this.

Apparently spending all that time cooped up gave me a bit of amnesia regarding the capriciousness of the universe.

It all started during one lunch break. I got out late, which wasn't altogether surprising. The overall verbosity and pomposity was a little higher that day—which meant it was a couple degrees of magnitude greater than usual. By the time I was escorted to a designated room to scarf down some food, it was well past noon.

I sat down and stared at what passed for my lunch. Overcooked rice. Overcooked mystery meat. Overcooked and limp vegetables. At least there was no chance of getting food poisoning. Any other kind of poisoning, though… that was another question entirely.

As I chewed and swallowed, something started nagging at me. It took a few more rounds of mastication before I figured it out: I was alone. In the room. Completely alone. No one else was eating here. There were no guards watching me. Even James, my overly muscled and jovial shadow, was missing.

Pausing mid-chew, I looked up at the nearest vid-cam. Then the next. I did a full 360 to confirm what I was seeing: every vid-cam was out.

This would probably be the part where some prisoner-for-hire, professional assassin or covert operative snuck in to shank me or something. I braced myself for an impending attack.

Turns out I was wrong. It was worse.

A man stepped in. Average height. Average weight—seriously, the heft around the middle was on that dangerous tipping point between slim and overweight. Short-cropped hair, steel grey, cut in a nondescript civilian style to match his nondescript civilian clothes. The kind of guy who normally would be dismissed as irrelevant and forgotten just as quickly.

But he had this... presence about him, the kind that would bring all conversations to a halt and replace them with a painful, almost deafening, silence. A gravitas that captured your attention and held it mercilessly. A silent authority that warned anyone paying attention: 'This is a man you should take notice of. This is a man you should respect. This is a man you should fear.'

And considering that I'd met this man before, and knew what he was capable of, two words came to mind:

Aw. Crap.

"Shalom, Joseph," he greeted me.

For the record: I don't speak Hebrew. Few of my friends, associates, contacts and frenemies—are men even allowed to use that term? Getting distracted—speak Hebrew. Out of all the sapients spread out amongst the galaxy, there were only two people who would greet me with 'Shalom.' One of them was a warm, sexy and very lethal woman. And no, I'm not talking about Miranda. Actually, I never _did_ find out how many languages Miranda spoke. Maybe make that three people. One was Miranda. One was Ziva.

And the last was her father. Currently standing before me and bringing back all sorts of warm and fuzzy memories.

Once upon a time, when I was wide-eyed, bushy-tailed and neon green behind the ears, I thought it would be cool to be a spy. So I dabbled in the seedy, murky shadows of Intelligence. 'Joseph' was the first code-name given to me, to signal when I had been activated for a mission. No one had called me that in years. Only a few people would know to use that particular name.

And the man who gave me that code-name was right in front of me.

Eli David. The legendary Deputy Director of Alliance Intelligence, known better by his infamous nickname of 'Triple-D.' The guiding hand of every black op, top-secret mission and dirty-tricks project. The man behind every act of blackmail, sabotage, assassination and other things that the Alliance wanted to sweep under the rug. The ultimate source of pain and misery for so many people—including his own family.

I thought I'd gotten away from him. I'd come pretty close over the last decade. In fact, I hadn't even heard his name dropped until a few months ago, back when Triple-D passed some intel to me via Anderson. I should have known that was just another way to suck me back down the rabbit hole.

"It's been a long time, Shepard," Triple-D said.

"Guess so," I mumbled around a bite of overcooked mystery meat. Seemed like a good way to look unimpressed by the legendary and infamous Triple-D. Besides, I was hungry.

"How have they been treating you?"

I shrugged. "Fine, I guess. Keep making me say the same things over and over again. Décor's kinda bland—someone needs to hire an interior decorator to brighten up the place. While they're at it, they oughta hire a better chef. Or at least spring fora couple cooking lessons."

Triple-D cast an eye over the food and grunted. "Did you know I put in a request to make sure the food was kosher?"

"Let me guess," I said dryly. "It's still under review."

"Indeed," Triple-D chuckled.

"Great." I put down my fork. "Now that we're done with the chit-chat, what do you want?"

"Down to business?" Triple-D asked. "It's been years since we last saw each other."

"We both know you've kept tabs on me through all your spies and contacts and covert surveillance VIs."

"Aren't you interested in how I've been doing?"

"Another time," I smiled thinly. "What do you want?"

At least Triple-D didn't make me repeat myself a third time. "I require your services for a mission. Tonight."

"Kinda short notice, don't you think?" I snorted.

"I do. But the intel prompting this came up very recently and the window of opportunity is extremely limited."

"Can't you just put in a request with the Alliance to borrow some spec-ops teams?"

"That would require going through official channels. The bureaucratic inertia is... formidable."

"Then go through unofficial channels. Hell, you must have some wetworks guys on retainer. Just activate them and let 'em loose."

"I do have a team on standby. Unfortunately, the mission requires one more individual to have a reasonable chance of success. And not just any individual: a competent individual with a proven track record for operating under less-than-ideal circumstances, working with minimal intel, adapting to unwanted and unpleasant changes as the situation warrants and the willingness to do so even though no one will ever know about his accomplishments and he will never be thanked for his service." He paused and looked me in the eye. "Does that remind you of anyone?"

Actually, it did. But he knew that, of course. He had probably gathered all sorts of intel and ran through various scenarios to calculate the best sales pitch possible.

There was just one problem, though. "You remember the last time we met?"

"Yes."

"Then you remember how you didn't give me the whole picture. That 'minimal intel' you mentioned earlier? You fed me minimal intel, withholding vital pieces of the puzzle until it was too late. And you forced a good woman into a situation where she would either be killed or forced into deep cover assignments—both of which separated her from her family. From her daughter."

"I am aware of her fate, and the sacrifices she had to make."

"She has a name. _Johanna_."

"I know her name. I know the names of all the intelligence officers under my command."

"Even the ones you threw to the wolves?" I asked sarcastically.

"Of course."

He said that with a quiet, almost poignant sincerity. If only I could believe him.

"You do not believe me."

Damn. Poker face wasn't what it used to be. Guess being in lockup really did a number on me. "Nope," I said honestly. "That would require me to trust you. And you've kinda burned that bridge. Besides," I leaned back and spread my hands as if to encompass the empty lunch hall, "my schedule's pretty full these days."

He looked around the hall and gave a grunt—of mild amusement, I think. "I would have thought that you would welcome a reprieve from your… busy schedule, but you are right."

I stared at him blankly as he got up. "I am?"

"You do not trust me. But there are others you might trust."

Triple-D walked to the door and knocked once. Twice. Three times.

Old habits die hard. I stood to attention and saluted as Admiral Hackett entered the room. "Sir!"

"At ease, Commander Shepard," Hackett said in his usual gravelly voice as he returned the salute.

"I will let the two of you have the room," Triple-D said to Hackett. He turned to me and gave a simple nod. "Shalom, Hackett. Shalom, Shepard."

Then he left. And it was just me, Hackett and the rapidly cooling pile of mush before me attempting to pass itself off as a meal.

I motioned for him to join me before sitting back down. "You know, this has been a really bizarre day."

"Of that, I have no doubt," Hackett allowed.

"Let me guess," I said after swallowing another bite of mystery meat—the mystery being where all the flavour went. "There really is a sanctioned Intelligence op that needs my participation for some bizarre reason, Triple-D came in person to emphasize how important it was and to get me thinking about said mission, he didn't bother going into details yet because he knew I wouldn't listen to him, he sent you because he knew I would listen to you and because your presence would signify that this is on the up-and-up and I won't get screwed over or hung out to dry."

"More or less," Hackett replied, choosing not to object to my unprofessional and somewhat disrespectful use of David's nickname.

Well, now.

As obvious as it might have been, I had to hand it to Triple-D: he knew, after the last op we ran together, that it would be a cold day in hell before I'd listen to anything he had to say. He needed someone who could corroborate his story. Someone who had the authority and security clearance to be read in on whatever this op was. Someone who I would trust with little to no reservation. There weren't a lot of people who met both of those criteria.

Admiral Hackett was one of them. "All right," I nodded. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to listen."

"A former subordinate of Deputy Director David went rogue some time ago. He eluded our efforts to apprehend him and dropped off the grid. Now he's resurfaced again to sell some intel. If he succeeds, the outcome would be disastrous."

"That goes without saying," I said wryly. "Let me guess: he wants me to stop the sale."

"Not exactly."

* * *

In the end, I agreed to help Triple-D.

Yeah, I probably need my head examined. But this was a real, actual mission we were talking about. Something that would actually get me back in the field, even if it was only for a few hours or so. Where I could actually do something besides sit impotently and endure rounds of accusations, field all sorts of questions and be forced to give answers that no one would actually listen to.

Unfortunately, it made the afternoon session of Kangaroo Court that much worse. If someone asked me how I got through it with my sanity intact, I would have to throw up my hands and shrug. Maybe I threw in a few more rounds of 'I think I can, I think I can.' Maybe the universe decided to balance the karmic scales by giving me a little more patience.

Whatever the reason, I lasted until the evening without screaming, yelling or throttling anyone. That, I thought, deserved some kind of acknowledgement. A small one. Not on the level of a parade or medal or yet another God-awful statue. I'd settle for some actual, tangible preparation for the looming Reaper invasion. Or maybe just a bar of chocolate—the good stuff, not the cheap crap. Or maybe something other than a mass-produced and institutionalized attempt to butcher mashed potatoes, pureed veggies and chicken.

At 2001, the doors slid open with a quiet hiss. Glancing up, I saw the vid-cams had turned themselves off. Time to get my game on and misbehave.

After I had agreed to sign up for this unofficial jaunt, Hackett told me that Triple-D had infiltrated the mainframe with a VI program. Aside from shutting down the vid-cams, it manipulated the guard rotations to clear a path from my cell to the exit at the southeast corner.

I made my way down the hall to the stairwell, trying my hardest to keep my pace to nothing more than a quick walk. Which wasn't easy: even though I did another check to make sure the vid-cams were down, I couldn't help but worry that they would turn back on at any moment and catch me in the act of breaking out. Boy, would _that_ be hard to explain!

But I managed to make it outside the compound and over to a certain alley, where a skycar was waiting for me. It was red, with three vertical scratches on the door and a dent on the rear, just as Hackett had told me. I carefully punched in the code he had provided, and was rewarded with a quiet beep as the door opened. Once I started it up and accessed the navigational computer, I was relieved to see that it was already pre-programmed to take me to a boring run-down warehouse. As Hackett promised, everything I would supposedly need was waiting for me inside, right next to a desk, a chair and a mirror.

I slipped the omni-tool onto my forearm, powered it up and checked it out. Standard sensor and analysis package—check. Minifacturing fabricator—check. EMP generation upgrade—check. Plasma generation and discharge upgrade—check. And there was another feature. An ace up my sleeve. Or perhaps I should say an ace in my omni-tool. Rather than decide which one sounded better, I tested my new toy out. Satisfied with the results, I lowered my arm.

Next, I donned the hardsuit that had been loaned to me. As I put piece after piece over my body, I could feel the familiar weight settle over me. Just as I thought it would overwhelm me and bring me to my knees, the power core activated, magically lifting the weight off my shoulders as the servomotors engaged. I swung my arms and walked around in a circle. Everything seemed to flow smoothly. I didn't even need to calibrate it. Either the last user had eerily similar biometrics to my own or someone had accessed my biometric profile from a hardsuit I previously used and transferred the data. Probably the latter, which was kinda creepy. For now, though, all that mattered was I wouldn't have to waste any time on extra maintenance or calibrations. I smiled—really, genuinely smiled—for the first time in months.

I also had a few weapons. An M-29 Incisor sniper rifle, just in case I needed to go for a long-distance shot. And a heavy pistol called the M-11 Suppressor. Given how obsessive I am with new military hardware—boys and their toys, you understand—I was kinda surprised that I never heard of it before. Still, it would probably come in handy if someone tried to get up close and personal.

With that in mind, I cleaned up after myself, closed all the kits and boxes and put them where I'd found them. Then I turned off the lights and headed to the roof, where an A-61 Mantis gunship was waiting for me. The hatch slid open as I approached. Casting a wary eye at the dark clouds looming overheard, I reached up to pull myself in—

—and froze.

Triple-D was there, which was a bit of a surprise. But my shock came from the team that he'd pulled together for this op. I'd met them all before, you see.

One was a man whose blond hair was cropped in a military-style buzz-cut. He was heavily built with muscle—not the carefully sculpted build you see with body-builders, but the kind of flat, firm muscle you get from hard exercise and harder work. "Howdy," he greeted me. I couldn't help but notice the cheerfulness in his voice didn't reach his eyes.

The second was a tall, slim woman with dark hair. She just stared at me blankly. No, not blankly. Intensely, with a focus that bordered on insanity. There was no warmth or life in her gaze. Only cold.

The third was a bald man with a slim, compact build. He was clearly in command. "Commander Shepard," he greeted me.

I'd met them all before as Blue, Red and Silver. We had worked together to eliminate someone who threatened a newly-turned mole. At least, that was the original plan. Before I learned that someone was Johanna. Once I'd made that discovery, it didn't take long before I tried to sabotage that meeting. Although Silver hadn't appreciated my disobedience, I later found out that my response had been predicted by Triple-D all along. In fact, he had been counting on it.

I had also learned that 'Silver's' real name was Namir. A cold, ruthless SOB who used to work in Alliance Special Ops before he—and his team—were loaned out to Alliance Intelligence. Permanently. Fire-team Omaha was Triple-D's first choice when it came to dirty, distasteful jobs that everyone likes to think doesn't exist.

And now I was expected to work with them again. "You've gotta be joking," I managed.

"We are here to complete a mission," Namir said. "As are you, I assume."

"Is there going to be a problem, Commander Shepard?" Triple-D asked.

Well, normally the answer would be yes, but not after Hackett's briefing. I still had reservations, mind you, but Hackett's intel—and his word—had gone a long way to bring them down to something I could live with. And time was of the essence. "No," I shook my head, stepping aboard and finding a seat. "No reason to assume there would be."

"Good," he nodded, leaning over and rapping a knuckle on the door separating the cargo space—where we were sitting—from the cockpit. The pilot remotely closed the hatch as he or she finished the preflight checks. "Because, as Namir said, we are all here for the mission and I expect cooperation from each and every one of you."

Uh huh. Again, if it wasn't for Hackett, I wouldn't be here in the first place.

The growing whine of the engines told us we were about to take off. Triple-D raised his voice slightly to make himself heard: "Listen up, everyone. We do not have much time." Activating his omni-tool, he projected an image of a well-tanned man with a dark, swarthy beard. "Our target is this man: Michael Rivkin. Ex-Alliance Intelligence; he dropped off the grid several years ago."

"Until now," Namir frowned. "Why do I have a bad feeling about this?"

"Because your instincts are correct," Triple-D confirmed. "Rivkin appears to be associated with an organization known as Fulcrum."

"Never heard of it," I said.

"That is not surprising," Triple-D admitted, "as we know very little about Fulcrum ourselves. It is not clear whether they are a newly formed private military corporation or a terrorist group that has yet to make a name for themselves. What concerns me is that there may be a link, however indirect, between Fulcrum and Alliance Intelligence."

That was when we lifted off with a lurch. "What kind of link?" I immediately asked once the bumps and shudders subsided.

"Unclear. It could be anything from a single disgruntled—and traitorous—individual to a rogue faction hiding within our ranks."

Wonderful. I wasn't the only one who felt that way, either. "Well, that's kinda vague," Blue—I still didn't know his name—snorted.

"That's enough!" Namir said firmly. "What do we know?" he asked Triple-D.

"We know Rivkin has obtained an OSD containing highly classified weapon schematics and intended to sell it to the highest bidder on Fulcrum's behalf."

A tap brought up another image—one that, for me, was painfully familiar. Triple-D seemed to recognize that. "Everyone here should recognize Johanna Beckett from the last time you all worked together. What some of you may not know was that we faked her death so she could go undercover."

"That's where she's been all this time?" I asked.

"Yes. Beckett has spent the last decade establishing a network of contacts, informants and assets, and the last three working her way up the ranks of Volkoff Industries—an intergalactic arms smuggling ring that has been slowly making a comeback in the Terminus Systems. Last week, Rivkin put the OSD on sale at an online auction. Volkoff Industries got the winning bid with their substantial offer of thermal clips and advanced weaponry. They sent Beckett to handle the exchange."

"Somehow, I don't think they'll like us crashing the party," I said. "How good is Beckett's cover?"

"Very. And we would like to keep it that way." He flipped to a new image. "This is where the deal will take place: a half-finished luxury hotel overlooking Coal Harbour. It's been abandoned ever since the company and original investors fell victim to a massive Ponzi scheme."

"So what's the plan, boss?" 'Blue' asked.

The holographic projection began moving through a pre-recorded tactical animation as Triple-D explained the plan. "Beckett's meeting Rivkin on the ground floor, inside the hotel's main atrium," Triple-D replied. "He's arranged for the bulk of his Fulcrum contingent—about a dozen or so men—to the penthouse levels to secure a vantage point while two guards accompany him to the exchange. Namir, I want you and your team to take up positions overlooking the atrium. Once the sale has been made and Beckett has the OSD, move in, neutralize Rivkin's guards and make the arrest. Shepard, you'll go in through the roof."

Good. As confident as I was in Hackett's intel, I wasn't all that sanguine with the idea of working alongside Namir and his crew. This plan would give us some much-needed distance. "What are my objectives?"

"Keep the rest of Fulcrum out of that atrium so they cannot interfere with the arrest. Based on the schematics we were able to obtain, there is only one route currently connecting the atrium to the penthouse levels: the executive elevator. None of the other elevators originally planned had been built that far when the construction company went belly-up. Your responsibility is to block access to it.

"There is another task that we would like you to perform, Shepard. As I mentioned earlier, we have had difficulty obtaining useful intel on Fulcrum. In Beckett's last communiqué, she provided a possible explanation: it seems Fulcrum makes use of some unique, customized technology to facilitate communications and exchange of data. She believes Fulcrum will take some of this tech—specifically a mobile communications relay—to secure the meet. If you can locate and disable the relay, we can retrieve it for further analysis. More importantly, we can maintain Beckett's cover."

Oh, _now_ he was worried about her health and well-being. Better late than never, I suppose. "Okay, then. Block the elevator and disable the relay. Gotcha."

"Correct," Triple-D said. "Though your primary objective is to block that elevator."

"Fine," I nodded.

Then a thought occurred to me. "Hang on: what about Beckett? Will Namir and the others ensure her safety?"

"They will do what they can. However, their primary objective is to apprehend Rivkin."

Now did that mean that Beckett's well-being was something they would automatically be concerned about? Or did that mean Beckett could potentially be sacrificed in the name of nabbing Rivkin? Because based on my past experience, it could go either way. "I'm sure she'd be overwhelmed by your concern for her well-being," I said dryly.

"Keep in mind that Beckett has to walk a fine line to preserve her cover. Excessive and obvious protection will compromise all her hard work." Triple-D paused and rubbed his eyes, the first sign of weariness and, well, being simply _human_ that I'd seen so far. "It is unfortunate that we could not assemble a larger group of operators for this mission. We received this intel at the very last minute and were forced to scramble without making the customary preparations. Nevertheless, I am counting on each and every one of you to see this mission through."

"Copy that," I nodded, along with everyone else.

" _Ladies and gentlemen,"_ the unseen pilot said over the comm, " _we are now approaching the target building. Please return all seats to the upright position. We will descend to the LZ in ten seconds."_

* * *

The roof showed just how incomplete the building's construction was. Oh, the ground beneath my feet was solid enough. But there was bare scaffolding, naked steel girders, and coils of wire everywhere. Frankly, I was surprised scavengers hadn't looted the place by now. I guess we can't have everybody be skilled, compulsive kleptomaniacs.

Not a lot of chances to swipe supplies when you're under arrest.

Shaking myself out of that unwanted bit of nostalgia, I activated my comm to contact… wait. What was Triple-D's call sign? He never said. "Um… Team Leader, this is Shepard. I'm on the roof."

" _Solid copy,"_ came the reply. _"You should find a ventilation shaft that connects the roof to the penthouse. From there, the access route you need to block should be at the far end of the penthouse. For operational purposes, strike force channel is Alpha; Namir and his team on Beta; you're on Gamma."_

I remembered that from the schematics we were shown during the briefing. Still, I guess it didn't hurt to reiterate that. "Understood," I said, checking my comm settings to make sure I could switch between channels as needed.

" _Namir will advise once his team is in position. David out."_

The stairs was on the other side of what was supposed to be a rooftop pool. Only there was no water in said pool—other than a few puddles from the rain that was starting to fall, and there was way too much debris on either side. So I had to hop down to the bottom of the pool floor, trot across, break into a running jump and haul myself up. Note: Triple-D said nothing about that. Guess he wasn't kidding when he said we were operating on minimal intel. I mean, would it kill them to retask a satellite and snap a pic or two?

At least the ventilation shaft was right where he said it would be. It had been a while since I had to crawl through such tight, confined spaces, but at least it wasn't dusty. Or full of critters packing pointy claws, sharp teeth or poisonous fangs.

After a minute or two, I found myself at an intersection. There was a ladder built into the side that took me down a couple metres. Then I entered another vent that led me to a… dead end? No, wait—there was a hatch. It was just really stiff. Make that really, really stiff. It just… didn't want to…

I winced as I finally forced the damn thing open with what seemed like a deafening shriek. Hurrying out, I pulled out my sniper rifle and froze, just in case someone overheard the loud racket I made and came to investigate. But no one came. Maybe I was in the clear.

Just to be safe, I waited another thirty-eight seconds before proceeding into a small room. One of the walls was stacked with crates. About half the floor was flooded, thanks to a broken overhead water pipe. And the door controls weren't working.

" _Shepard,"_ Namir's voice piped up, _"the gunship has just dropped us off. We are making our way to... shit!"_

Somehow, I didn't think I should take that last part literally. "Problem?"

" _Looks like Fulcrum has some turrets set up. Short of blowing them up and alerting everyone to our position, we'll have to hack them."_

"Sounds like fun," I chirped. "All those boxes of text, all those pretty colours. Just remember: red means bad."

Namir's response was short, to the point and definitely not in any language I knew. Something like _"Lekh tezdayen!"_ Bottom line: I don't think it was the kind of phrase you use in polite company. Someone would have to wash his mouth with soap after this was all over.

But that would have to wait. For now, I had a door to open. I spotted what looked like a circuit breaker panel on the wall, right above the crates. Looked like the fuse switches had tripped. So I reset the switches. The door control lit up.

And the floor came alive with electricity, thanks to the live wires that were dipping into the water. Great.

OK, Shepard. Think. How the heck was I supposed to get through this room? Can't open the door without power. Can't get _to_ the door without wading through a shallow pool that was crackling with electricity. Even with my shields, I'd only last so long before my hair stood on end and I started doing an involuntary dancing jig.

Then I had an idea.

Turning off the power, I lifted a crate—with a lot of grunting—carried it over and gently lowered it to the ground, right in the midst of the puddle. After I repeated that a couple more times, I went back to the circuit breakers and turned the power back on. Then I hopped from crate to crate—none of which conducted electricity—until I got to the door. Which was locked, of course. Thankfully, I could now bypass the lock without worrying about getting fried to a crisp.

Finally, I got the door opened and entered the penthouse. It wasn't much to speak of, considering nothing was finished and there were stacks of construction supplies everywhere. I wasn't complaining, though: they would give me plenty of places to hide and get the drop on all those hostiles—like the one in this room. Thankfully, he wasn't looking my way.

There were three crates between me and the closest hostile. Vaulting over a table, I crouched behind the first crate. No sign that I'd been spotted. I scurried to the next one. Still nothing. Then I double-timed it to the last crate. I was so close, I could reach out and touch the guy.

So that's what I did. Though when I say 'touch,' I mean grab his shoulder, spin him around, knee him in the gut and lay him out with a solid punch to the jaw.

And then I searched his pockets for loot. Damn, how I missed that.

Creeping into the next room, there were at least two more hostiles. This time, though, there wasn't a lot of cover. Oh, there were shelves full of supplies that provided a visual screen, but they were all on my side of the room. I could activate my cloak, but that would only give me six seconds, and the invisibility would do nothing to mask my footsteps.

Looking around, I grabbed the closest object—an empty paint can—and tossed it at the wall. The clatter echoed through the room. "What was that?" I heard.

"Probably the seagulls knocking something over."

"Right. A seagull. Today of all days."

"Well, if you're so sure something's wrong, why don't you go check it out?"

After some more debate, the first guy finally wandered over to investigate. I waited until he got close enough before popping out of cover and delivering a stiffened finger-jab to the throat. The poor sap only had enough time to let out a wheeze through his bruised vocal cords before I punched his lights out.

Once I'd patted him down for thermal clips, credits and other forms of loot, I dared to poke my head out. The second guy apparently wasn't curious enough to wait and see what his colleague found, given that he was wandering back the way he came. Crouching down, I began to creep towards him. Alas, I only made it a couple metres before he turned back. Raising my pistol, I centred on his head and gently squeezed the trigger once, twice. A gentle puff was all I heard before the hostile collapsed to the ground.

I wanted to say something like "Holy crap! Where have you been all my life?" Alas, I was trying to be stealthy and quiet, so I had to settle for a silent squeal.

It's possible that I need therapy. Lots and lots of therapy. But I digress.

A quick search of the room told me: a) there were no more hostiles, b) there was no more loot and c) the only way out of here—other than through the windows—was the elevator. Okay, there was also the stairs, but that was lined with tempered glass—read, see-through—stair railings that would allow any idiot with eyes to see me. Because I was boring and, need for therapy aside, sane, I settled for the elevator.

While I was waiting for the elevator to come up, Triple-D gave us another alert: _"Shepard, Namir: listen up! The rain has picked up, along with the wind."_

" _How bad?"_ Namir wanted to know.

" _Bad. It's now pouring buckets and meteorological data estimates a wind speed of forty kilometers per hour. Visibility is less than optimal."_

Great. This was just great. Unfortunately, there was nothing you could do to stop Mother Nature. "Understood," I said.

" _Solid copy,"_ Namir chimed in.

The elevator arrived just as that cheerful conversation wrapped up. I stepped in and selected the bottom floor of the penthouse. The ride was short, uneventful and quiet—no easy-listening elevator music to drive you crazy.

Just as the elevator came to a stop, it occurred to me that someone might notice the elevator unexpectedly moving. On a hunch, I activated my cloak as the doors opened. Sure enough, there was a suspicious hostile waiting, gun raised. Luckily for me, he had enough fire discipline to refrain from spraying the elevator car with bullets—and he was alone. So no one was around to hear me when I lifted my pistol and put a bullet between his eyes.

After dragging his body back into the elevator car, I stepped out... only to quickly turn back and pat him down for loot. Nothing. Not even a handful of credits. Ugh. At least the next guy I came across had a couple thermal clips, which he was happy to hand over after I blew his brains out. Checking my HUD, I froze when I realized there were two more hostiles in the room. One about ten metres away from the door; the other out on a partially completed balcony. Lifting my sniper rifle, I aimed at the hostile on the balcony... only to change my mind and switch to my pistol at the last second. Worked like a charm. Making a mental note to keep an eye out for this beauty in the future, I charged the other guy under cloak and punched his lights out.

Unfortunately, that was when the third hostile came running into the room. Slippery little weasel—he ducked and dodged almost every shot I let off, screaming bloody murder the whole time. By the time I took him out, my clip was spent and every hostile in the immediate area now knew they were under attack. Guess the element of surprise was over.

With who knows how many hostiles coming this way, it was time to find a good piece of cover. The scaffolding up above me to the right would offer the tactical advantage of an elevated position, but it was also too exposed for my liking. There were several good spots behind me, but I would rather fall back to them in the event that things went sideways. Up ahead were a few tables that wouldn't hold up to much gunfire, a couple tall columns that would do in a pinch and my old standby: a random stack of crates.

Choosing the latter, I quickly headed over and ducked down behind my old standby. I didn't have enough time to reload my pistol before the party started though, so I switched to my sniper rifle... just in time for the first hostile to show up. One shot, one kill. Then I moved to the left side of the crates. Bad idea to keep firing from the same spot, you see. Unless you want someone to predict your movements and put a plan together to beat you. I didn't. Which was partly why I successfully tagged the next hostile with one bullet right between the eyes.

The third hostile was a bit smarter. As soon as she ran in and saw her two dead buddies, she came to a stop and dove for cover behind one of the columns. And she stayed under cover. Which probably meant she realized—or suspected—there was a threat in the area and didn't want to blunder into my sights. Smart.

We wound up in a waiting game, each silently willing the other to make the first move. Normally, I'd have the advantage. Most people aren't used to waiting. After a while, they get impatient. Feel the need to do something— _anything_. Whereas I've been trained as a sniper to wait as long as it takes to line up the perfect shot.

Then again, I didn't exactly have all the time in the world. I had a penthouse to secure and a comm relay to disable. Plus, the longer I waited, the greater the likelihood that more of her buddies would show up to crash the party. Just because I was used to being outnumbered didn't mean I _wanted_ it to happen, thank you very much.

Figuring now would be a good time to reload, I swapped out my thermal clip. As I slammed a new one home, I spotted something worth checking out later.

...

Just as soon as I took care of this hostile.

...

I saw a shadow shift, just enough to catch my attention. Any second now...

...

The hostile finally poked her head out. Not long, but enough for me to line up a shot. One gentle squeeze of the trigger and her head popped like an overripe melon.

Holstering my sniper rifle, I carefully made my way to the hostile I just killed. After searching her for loot—for the sake of my inner kleptomaniac, you understand, I headed forward. My HUD told me there were two hostiles in the next room before I overheard their conversation. I suppose I could have taken them out, but I had another plan.

The vent I spotted was three, maybe four, metres off the ground. Pulling myself up, I clung to the grate with one hand while turning the hatch with the other. Then it was just a matter of crawling through the vents into the next room while holding my breath so I wouldn't give myself away with a sneezing fit.

"Namir," I hissed as I emerged from the tunnel of dust, "how you making out?"

" _Slower than expected. It's like a fucking cemetery for mechs down here."_

"Say again?" I frowned.

" _The construction company building this place used a lot of mechs, but they didn't bother taking them away when they went belly-up. There are dormant mechs_ everywhere. _Creepy as hell."_

Which meant having to spend extra time to make sure none of those mechs could wake up from cybernetic slumber and go straight into a homicidal killing spree.

" _Here's a thought: you're like, what, thirty percent cybernetic now? Want me to pick up some spare parts?"_

Since when had Namir gotten so damn chatty? "Nah, I'm good. But if you find something to pull that stick outta your ass, feel free to take it with you."

With that out of the way, I pulled out my pistol again and began working my way through the room. There were lots of crates to hide behind while I snuck up on hostiles and shot them in the back of the head.

I'd taken out two of them in just such a fashion when Triple-D got on the comm. _"Report."_

"Still working my way through the penthouse."

" _And the relay?"_

"Still looking."

" _Understood."_

I shot yet another hostile, searched his body and moved on to the next target. I was about halfway there when Triple-D contacted us. _"Listen up, everyone. Our cyber-division may have just hacked into Fulcrum's comm frequency. Verifying signal integrity... okay. If all goes well, we should be hearing Rivkin any second..."_

" _Nahanee, it's Rivkin. Seller's gonna be here in a few minutes. Find the others and tell them to meet us in the atrium."_

" _On it."_

I had just entered another room. Once I'd taken out the two hostiles loitering around, I gave my report on the hack. "Signal's clean."

" _Solid copy,"_ Namir echoed.

" _Very well. I'll patch you back in once the deal goes off."_

Meanwhile, I'd figured out why those hostiles were in the room. After opening the comm relay up and pulling a few wires—and components—loose, I got in touch with Triple-D. "David, relay's disabled. Moving on to primary target now."

" _Understood."_

According to the map we were shown, the elevator was in the next room. Unfortunately, there were three hostiles who were hanging around in _this_ room. Now I could've gotten into a fight with them, but Beckett's message had reinforced how little time we had. So I found another vent to crawl through, thus bypassing the Three Stooges entirely.

Yeah. My life consisted of shooting bad guys or crawling through dusty vents. Boy, did I need a life or what!

Having sidestepped another firefight, I found myself sneaking past random piles of debris to the elevator. Which was electronically locked. While I began bypassing the lock, Namir chose that moment to contact me. _"Shepard, we're inside the atrium. Taking up positions on the terrace. What's your twenty?"_

"Taking care of the elevator."

" _Well hurry up, damn it! Enemy gunship's inbound and the rain is pouring. The last thing we need are those Fulcrum agents leaving the penthouse."_

"And as soon as I finish sabotaging this elevator, said Fulcrum agents won't be going anywhere," I said, trying not to grind my teeth.

That seemed to mollify Namir somewhat. _"Fine. You get that comm relay disabled?"_

"Yep."

" _Well done, Shepard."_

Namir just paid me a compliment. Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket.

" _Perhaps you can be a team player after all."_

Or not. Finishing up with the control panel, I switched to channel Alpha. "This is Shepard. Penthouse access route secure. Fulcrum shouldn't be a problem. Over."

" _Copy that,"_ Triple-D replied.

" _Confirmed,"_ Namir said. _"And not a second too soon: there's a gunship sighted."_

Sure enough, a Mantis gunship was inbound. It was flying awfully fast, I thought, considering the miserable weather that Triple-D had mentioned.

" _Alright, strike force,"_ Triple-D said _. "Position and hold."_

" _Omaha One in position,"_ Namir said. He paused before adding _"Omaha Two all set."_

" _Three, yeah,"_ 'Blue' drawled. I guess 'Two' was 'Red,' a.k.a. the silent woman.

Pulling out my sniper rifle, I wondered what my call sign was supposed to be. "Shepard in position," I finally decided. Just to emphasize that I wasn't part of Triple-D's personal hit squad.

" _Confirmed,"_ Triple-D said _. "Safeties off and stay sharp."_

Through the scope of my rifle, I saw three men waiting as the gunship touched down. I had guessed the centre guy was Rivkin before I saw the beard. Moving to the gunship, I saw Beckett and two nameless goons step out. It had been a while since I saw her. Hell, if I had been more of a good little soldier, she would've been dead. Instead, she'd been neck-deep with arms dealers and criminals for the better part of a decade.

She looked good. Maybe a few more wrinkles. A few streaks of grey here and there. But otherwise, she looked good. As I watched, she took a step towards Rivkin as her buddies began hauling crates off the gunship.

" _Beckett's got eyes on Rivkin,"_ Triple-D added. _"Omaha: confirm."_

" _Positive confirmation on target,"_ Namir said _. "Repeat: Rivkin is in the A.O._

" _Understood. Patching you in now. Remember: Beckett is also down there, so watch your fire."_

Especially when the meet was going down. I focused on the action down in the atrium. Rivkin's voice came over the comm, courtesy of the patch: _"You picked a lousy time for a buy, Beckett."_

" _Oh I'm sorry,"_ Beckett said mockingly. _"Mr. Volkoff didn't tell me a little rain might make you melt. Maybe we should reschedule for another night, Mr. ...?"_

" _Rivkin. And that will not be necessary. Provided you brought the weapons?"_

" _Yeah. You got the disc?"_

Rivkin reached into a pocket—slowly—and pulled out something. Beckett must've been satisfied, because she reached over and opened one of the crates. _"M-15 Vindicator and M-76 Revenant assault rifles as requested."_

" _I asked for M-22 Eviscerators as well."_

" _Those babies are hard to come by. And they pack quite a kick. Unless you want to send your boys to the hospital with broken limbs, I think M-27 Scimitars would be more your speed. They're in the crate over there."_

" _Fine. I guess that'll have to do. What about the thermal clips?"_

I didn't pay attention to Beckett's reply, as a flicker of movement had caught my attention. Lifting my sniper rifle, I panned over until I was looking outside the hotel. It only took a moment before I saw a pair of garbage trucks moving through the street.

Now why did I care about something like that? Well, I could give you three reasons. One, garbage pickups didn't operate this late at night in the greater Vancouver area. Two, they wouldn't operate in tandem. Three, they were heading this way—and the lead truck was picking up an awful lot of speed.

Before I could give any warning, the first garbage truck careened into the atrium, plowed through Beckett's guards and collided with her gunship. Judging by the sizable dent, I doubted that it would be flying again anytime soon. The second truck, close on its heels, came to a halt. Hidden panels slid up, allowing the passengers to disembark. Armed passengers.

" _What's going on down there?"_ Triple-D demanded.

I frowned as I zoomed in and got a better look. Make that familiar, armed passengers. "David, Omaha; this is Shepard. Gatecrashers are bearing Cerberus logos. Repeat: new hostiles are Cerberus, not Fulcrum!"

In hindsight, that may have been a stretch. For all we knew, Fulcrum could've been part of Cerberus. Or maybe they were just affiliated with each other. The only thing I knew for sure was that the Fulcrum thugs wore a random mismatched set of clothes and hardsuits that you'd seen in any starport, whereas the goons spilling out of the garbage trucks were all sporting gold and black hexagons on their upper sleeves. Cerberus was always obsessed with their brand.

That was when the Cerberus goons opened fire. They were pretty indiscriminate with their aim, too. Beckett dove for cover behind the gunship. Rivkin found cover behind some artsy-looking statue that bordered on pornography. The remaining Fulcrum agents might've got off a shot or two before they got mowed down.

" _Omaha, this is Beckett!"_ I might've been distracted at hearing Jo's voice again if it wasn't for what she had to say. _"Party crashed by Cerberus agents. They're going after the weapons. Open fire, OPEN FIRE!"_

" _You heard her, Omaha,"_ Namir snapped. _"Weapons free! Open up on them!"_

"Namir!" I said as the battle began down below. "Rivkin's on the run!" The swarthy guy was crawling on his hands and knees, but he was definitely getting the hell out of Dodge. "You got a shot?"

" _Negative! Negative! We're under heavy fire down here! We can't let Rivkin get away, Shepard."_

Naturally, it was all up to me. Letting out a sigh, I bolted for the elevator. "Copy that," I said. Skidding to a stop by the elevator, I began tinkering with the control panel. "And I just got this thing locked down too," I muttered.

* * *

Thankfully, practice made perfect. I managed to hotwire the elevator in about half the time. Getting in, I slammed the ground floor button with a little more force than necessary and repeatedly told the elevator doors to close until they actually, well, began to close.

" _Guys?!"_ Beckett yelled over the comm. _"I've lost visual on Rivkin. And I'm pinned down. Cerberus is closing in. I need support!"_

" _Damn it!"_ Namir cursed. _"Shepard, there's almost twenty Cerberus agents down here. We might lose Beckett_ and _Rivkin if you don't get down here and lend us a hand!"_

That's it? Six-to-one odds weren't that bad. Maybe Fire-team Omaha wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Or maybe the galaxy had been tormenting me for so long that I was no longer fazed by being that badly outnumbered. I could ponder that mystery later: the cacophony of gunfire was rising steadily as I descended towards the atrium and I had work to do.

As soon as the doors opened, I crouched down and scurried into the battlefield. Activating my cloak, I went around a display case, lifted my Suppressor and emptied my clip into the two closest Cerberus goons. Ejecting the spent clip, I headed down a stairwell and slammed a fresh clip home—just in time to lift the pistol and land a headshot on the next hostile that crossed my path. Another one briefly entered my line of sight before moving behind some dead shrubbery. I waited until I got closer before dispatching that guy. Four down, plenty to go.

I'd taken out my ninth Cerberus goon when Namir got on the comm. _"Shepard, Beckett's safe. She's heading up to join us now."_

Best news I'd heard all day! "Glad to hear it."

" _We've lost Rivkin, though."_

A flash of sudden movement caught my eye. "I've got him," I announced. "He's making a break for the front door." I quickly lifted my pistol and emptied my clip at him. And missed. Damn it.

" _I see him,"_ 'Blue' confirmed. _"No way we can get to him in time."_

" _Shepard, get Rivkin,"_ Namir ordered. _"We'll deal with Cerberus."_

"Understood."

By that point, my cloak had recharged. So I made like the Invisible Man and sprinted after Rivkin.

As I slammed through the front door, the telltale shimmerheralded my cloak shutting down. Oh, well: it had lasted long enough for me to get through the atrium without being shot. Now all I had to do was catch up with Rivkin. Damn, he was fast! Or maybe I was getting slow: not a lot of opportunities to stay in shape when you were on lockdown.

He ran down the sidewalk before sliding over the hood of a skycar and squeezing between a pair of hedges. I did the same, realizing too late that the hedges were actually holly bushes. As in prickly leaves. Grr. We ran through what looked like an urban garden and another set of goddamned holly bushes. Momentarily losing him while trying to keep the leaves from scratching my eyes out, I wasted a few precious seconds looking around before I saw him running up a flight of stairs and into the courtyard of some tower complex.

Bounding up the stairs two at a time, I bolted into the courtyard and picked up steam. I was slowly closing the gap when he made an abrupt left, hopped over the railing surrounding the courtyard square and dropped out of sight. I reached the edge just in time to see him bounce off the awning onto the sidewalk, roll to his feet and run into an alley. Of course, I followed. What choice did I have?

Rivkin led me through the alley, across another street and into one of those multi-level parking lots. That was where I lost him for good. I pulled out my pistol and carefully walked forward. "David, I just lost visual on Rivkin. Lock down a square block around my position." I paused. "David? You hear me?"

That was when Rivkin barreled into me and slammed my head against an expensive-looking skycar.

Little did he know that there wasn't much in my noggin that was still working. Still, between the blurred vision, the ringing in my ears and the howling of the skycar alarm, I was more than a little disoriented. Which was probably why I dropped the pistol. By the time my vision cleared up, it had slid under one of the many skycars in the lot. Somehow, I didn't think I had the time to figure out which one.

Rivkin favoured me with a smile. "The great Commander Shepard. We meet at last."

"Hi there," I managed.

"Did I hear you say 'David' by any chance?"

"Sure did," I nodded. "Eli David. You remember him, right? Deputy Director of Alliance Intelligence? Your boss? Well, former boss."

"You really expect me to believe that Eli would plan all that? That he would break you out, arm you to the teeth and send you to interrupt my business deal? Isn't that a little complicated?"

"What can I say," I shrugged. "After the events of the last year, complicated and I are pretty darn cozy. Which means that I can take Eli's plan in stride.

"Now I've already taken out a dozen of your guys, one way or another, and half of the Cerberus goons—yeah, I said Cerberus. They're the other guys who interrupted your business deal. Personally, I think that's enough. It's not like I had a quota to fill or anything. Still don't, as a matter of fact. All I have to do is take you in so you can answer some questions. Like how long did it take you to grow that beard and when areyouever gonna shave it off?"

"Two weeks and why would I get rid of it? Women find it sexy."

Funny how one man's sexy was another man's 'Oh my—what _is_ that? For the love of God, shave it off!' But I guess I'd stalled long enough. "So how's this gonna play out, Rivkin?"

He started to laugh, wagging a finger at me as if to scold me for being a naughty boy before raising his arm and frying my shields with an EMP. No doubt he'd hoped to distract me. Too bad for him that I had the same idea. With a snap of the proverbial fingers, both of us lost our shields.

The EMPs also overheated our weapons, shutting them down until they could vent the excess heat. Which basically meant that Rivkin's heavy pistol had been temporarily reduced to a very expensive paperweight. Thinking fast, he threw it at me in an attempt to distract me. It didn't work. I had just enough time to pull out my sniper rifle, using it as an improvised bat to knock his pistol out of the way, before he charged. I managed to block a few punches with my sniper rifle and land a jab to his side before he tore it from my grasp and flung it away. Then he began whaling away with his fists, elbows, knees and feet. I blocked maybe one in every three blows. Not surprising, considering I barely passed the N7 fighting courses. Hell, I'd only gotten middling scores in the hand-to-hand fighting classes I took in Basic!

It quickly became clear that Rivkin was the better fighter. At the very least, he knew to maintain a constant flurry of blows and chops, never giving me time to set up my own attack and forcing me to absorb hit after hit. Yes, I had the armour plating of my hardsuit, but he was wearing a hardsuit too. That meant armoured gauntlets and an entire body sheathed in strength-enhancing myofibril bundles. Taking that kind of punishment hurts. Trust me.

The natural response would be to stagger back and try to catch your breath. Or maybe turn tail and attempt to flee. You might try to attack if you were skilled, aggressive, stupid or a combination of the above. Best defence is a good offense and all that.

I chose to tackle him. In case you were wondering, I'd put that in the 'stupid' column. Pretty safe bet. Rivkin instinctively wrapped his arms around me and braced his legs to prevent himself from falling, which meant we spent the next five or ten seconds hugging each other and going round and round in circles. Manly hugs. With lots of manly grunts.

Rivkin let out a particularly loud manly grunt as I kneed him in the midriff. By accident—I was aiming for his groin. Still, it distracted him long enough for me to break free and run for it. At least, run far enough to pass a nearby skycar and disable the locks with another EMP. No, I wasn't picking a particularly bad time to indulge my kleptomania. My plan was to fling the door wide open and into Rivkin's face as he pursued me.

That plan worked spectacularly, by the way. Rivkin stumbled back, stunned for the first time since our frantic and violent fight began. Time to strike while he was distracted. I landed a good solid punch. Then another. Then—

—then Rivkin took a step back as I overextended myself. Not much, mind you, but enough that he could wrap his arm around mine and squeeze. My left arm twisted in a way that human arms were never meant to twist. There was a loud pop and crunch, drowned out by the cry of pain that escaped my lips.

As my left arm dropped limply, I switched to a defensive stance. Rivkin practically danced around me, sending a constant and unrelenting barrage of punches and kicks from all angles, knowing that I only had one arm to block. It didn't take long before I was worn out, panting for breath, my body sagging in exhaustion despite my best efforts.

Like greased lightning, Rivkin dodged around me. Before I knew it, he had an arm around my throat. I quickly grabbed the other arm before he could reach up and snap my neck. After a few seconds, he apparently settled for a slower, but no less final, death by asphyxiation. I tensed up, struggling against him. My right arm pawed against his right arm in a feeble effort to break free.

Believe it or not, I had him right where I wanted.

Rivkin's plan was pretty good, as far as it went. However, his intel was missing a couple key points. For starters, I had been rebuilt from the ground up. My muscles and bones had been augmented and enhanced. If I could routinely fire a Widow Anti-Materiel Rifle without shattering my bones or paying yet another visit to sickbay, I could probably handle Michael Rivkin. Though I'll admit my hardsuit did help.

Second, my omni-tool—attached to my supposedly limp left arm—had an extra feature. And now was the time to use it.

With a sudden jerk, I twisted around on the spot. Rivkin wasn't expecting that, nor would he have been able to stop me with one hand. I made my left hand into a fist and pressed firmly against his side. A hard tap of my finger against the palm of my left hand caused the omni-tool's mini-fabricator to flash-forge a silicon-carbide blade—diamond hard, suspended in a mass effect field and crackling with a veritable sheath of high-voltage electricity. The blade unfolded outward, much like some of the switchblades that humans used to use back in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, slicing through Rivkin's armour, skin, flesh and intestines like a hot knife through butter.

Feeling his constrictor-like grip slacken, I broke free of Rivkin. He stumbled, arms clutched tightly to his side in an attempt to keep his innards from spilling out. My 'omni-blade' blinked out—not surprising, since they were designed to be disposable weapons geared for maximum damage, not long-term durability. No matter: it had done its job.

"Okay," I said. Well, wheezed. Maybe rasped. I coughed a couple times to clear my throat. "Okay," I repeated, slowly backing up towards my heavy pistol. Better. "That's enough, Rivkin. Let's get you some medical attention. It's over now."

Rivkin didn't say anything. He just... glared at me.

"Come on, man," I panted. "Whatever's going on, it doesn't have to end this way."

Rivkin just kept glaring, with a maniacal intensity I hadn't seen in months. He lashed out at a nearby skycar, shattering the window with a single blow. Grabbing a foot-long shard of glass, he limped towards me. A seething maelstrom of emotion blazed out from his eyes, full of anger and fury.

"Rivkin," I warned. "Don't do it. Don't do it!"

He ignored me. Between the injuries he'd sustained and no medical supplies of any kind at hand, he was a dead man walking. But he didn't care. He didn't want to be saved. He just wanted to keep fighting. To force me to take the shot.

"You idiot," I cursed. "You stupid, _stupid_ idiot."

I raised my arm, fried his shields again, dove down to grab my heavy pistol and emptied the clip in his skull.

* * *

It was raining on the way back to the safe house. The downpour matched my mood.

I parked the skytruck—the one I had hotwired after disabling the tracking systems. It was laughably easy to do. Maybe that part of the plan wasn't so half-baked after all—and got out. Made my way over to the table. Removed any thermal clips I hadn't used during this mission. Disassembled and stripped down my weapons. Began dismantling my hardsuit.

"Were you planning on saying hello any time soon?" I called out. "Or were you gonna just sit there and watch me strip?"

There was a pause.

"Shalom, Shepard. I presume you completed your mission?"

I hopped on one foot as I removed one of my leg greaves. "Yep. High-tech Fulcrum comm relay disabled. Fulcrum agents killed, knocked out or otherwise trapped in the penthouse."

"And Rivkin?"

"Dead."

"Ah. Pity."

He said that so mildly. Clearly, he was choked up with emotion at the death of an agent. A former agent, I should say.

"Did you get the OSD he was trying to sell?"

Turning around, I snatched it from the table, where I'd placed it earlier, and tossed it to Triple-D like a very small Frisbee. He caught it, slipped it in his own omni-tool—very trusting, considering all the viruses I could have put on it—and quickly scanned the files.

"Good," Triple-D said. "It appears you haven't gotten rusty during your incarceration."

"Glad to hear it," I replied sarcastically. "Hopefully it has what you're looking for."

His eyes narrowed. "I do not know what you are talking about."

Why beat around the bush? "That OSD doesn't have any weapon schematics. The only thing it has is the last will and testament of Ari Haswari."

If looks could kill, Triple-D's glare would probably have reduced me to a mist of subatomic particles. I returned his glare with a calm I definitely did not feel, but dared not show.

"Hackett," he stated more than asked.

"A little," I acknowledged. "A bit from Ziva too."

He grew very still. Clearly, he didn't expect _that_ development. "What do you know?" he finally asked.

"I know Ari Haswari is your son, through what was supposedly a one-night stand between a mysterious stranger and a kind-hearted doctor named Hasmia Haswari," I began. "I know you deliberately engineered the encounter, using your role as Ari's biological father to manipulate Dr. Haswari's emotions and turn her into a human intelligence asset that you could use to monitor the state of the Terminus Systems.

"I know that, through your infrequent visits to the Terminus Systems, you sought to mold Ari into a spy. Why? Because his childhood upbringing would provide him the perfect cover to blend in with all the other undesirable and potentially hostile factions that resided there.

"I know that after the death of your youngest daughter..." I had to break off. Not because I wanted to create some kind of dramatic suspense, though I'm sure it came across that way, but because of her name. As a spacer brat, I grew up meeting or hearing of people who had all sorts of names. In all that time, though, I'd only came across two people who were named Tali. One was the first quarian I'd ever met, one who I was privileged to call a friend. The other was Ziva's baby sister, whose grave I and a very select group of people had the honour to visit a long time ago. I never mentioned that, though, not even in my personal logs. Ziva wouldn't have wanted that.

"After Tali was killed," I continued, "you authorized a series of missions against the organization you believed responsible. You activated Ari—your own son—to carry out several of those missions. You ordered Ziva—your only remaining daughter—to become his handler. You turned your own flesh and blood into your personal tools, in order to further Alliance interests and carry out your revenge.

"Oh, and that's not even the best part," I laughed darkly. "Ari turned on you. He switched sides and joined Cerberus. When you found out, you ordered Ziva to kill him. To kill her own brother. _And she did it!_ "

There was another silence. It was my turn to level a lethal glare at Triple-D.

"After that, well, you know the rest," I said. "Ziva left Intelligence. Found her own calling. Broke off all ties with you, despite your frequent attempts to re-establish contact.

"That's what this is, isn't it?" I pressed, pointing at Triple-D's omni-tool and the precious OSD it held. "Some sick, twisted way to reach out to Ziva? After all these years!"

"Not exactly."

Whatever I was about to say in reply died on my lips when I saw Triple-D. The cold, stern, ruthless legend who had ice-cold pragmatism running through his veins had... vanished. Like a bloody stain that had been washed away by the rain that was still pouring outside. In its wake was... an old man. Haggard. Tired. Full of pain and regret.

That man shuffled over to the table and all but flopped onto one of the crates. "I am trying to talk to my daughter again. But that is not the only reason."

Of course not.

"I've made many mistakes," he said. "Because of my pride. My arrogance. And my need for revenge."

"Go on."

"You know about Tali. Her death left a hole that was never filled."

"Ziva said that she embodied the best of your family," I offered.

"She was right," Triple-D agreed. "Her kindness... her compassion... What Ziva didn't mention was that I traced the bomb that killed Tali back to what, at the time, was a minor terrorist organization. You are quite familiar with them."

Oh no.

"You just fought some of their operatives, after all. And you spent quite some time with them. After they brought you back to life, of course."

Now it was my turn to sit down shakily. "But that... are you... you're saying that _Cerberus_ was ultimately responsible for Tali's death?"

"Yes."

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

"You are correct in that I used every means and resource at my disposal to strike back at Cerberus. That included sending Ari in to infiltrate Cerberus. To see how far they had spread, how much they had compromised, to determine how much damage they could cause. Information is power: it always has been. I believed that, with enough information, I could contain, control and ultimately destroy Cerberus."

"Didn't quite work out that way, did it?"

Triple-D laughed bitterly. "No. It did not. Ari switched sides shortly after he joined Cerberus's ranks. I later found out that one of the Alliance's remote orbital drone strikes veered off course. Instead of destroying a batarian pirate ring, as it was originally intended to, it took out a refugee camp. One where Hasmia was working.

"Ari believed that I was responsible. He thought that I had sanctioned the killing of his mother to further solidify his cover. He was mistaken. I didn't do so. But... you know that Alliance military doctrine emphasizes mobility, flexibility and speed. At one point, that doctrine included the use of remote drones."

"Yeah," I said cautiously. "So?"

"At the time of Hasmia's death, I was one of the strongest proponents and supporters for the use of drones in counter-terrorism and military operations."

This was just getting better and better.

"By the time I found out the truth, the damage was done. In his grief, Ari had vowed vengeance against me, the Alliance and everything we stood for. He expanded his vendetta to include the other Citadel races as well. I don't know if Cerberus truly turned him and brainwashed him, or if Ari simply regarded them as a convenient ally to wreak his vengeance. All I knew was that he was my son. My mess to clean up."

"And you cleaned him up through Ziva," I snapped. "Do you have any idea what you did? Can you understand how... how... cruel and despicable and cowardly it was to use your daughter to clean up _your_ mess?"

"At the time? No," Triple-D replied with what appeared to be brutal honesty. "I thought she had the highest chance of intercepting Ari and cancelling him. But now... I've spent the subsequent years learning that lesson."

"That's why you killed those Cerberus agents on Earth and had Anderson send me to Illium in their place," I realized. "You're still trying to take them down."

"Indeed. I expected you to succeed, of course, but I forgot your propensity to exceed standard mission projections: we're paying very close attention to the sleeper cell you uncovered at the Grand Mirage."

"And Rivkin?"

"Another mistake. When Ziva first cut off ties with me, I wanted to bring her back. So I... gave Agent Rivkin an assignment."

"You wanted him to mediate something between the two of you."

"Not exactly. Rivkin specialized in Valentine operations."

I stared at him blankly. "Huh?"

"Seduction."

Oh for... "You sent Rivkin to _seduce_ Ziva? Are you _serious_?"

"Yes."

Why in the—oh hell, why not? It wasn't as if this tragedy wasn't fucked up enough already.

"I take it that didn't end well?"

"Ziva found out. She was furious."

"Gee," I interrupted, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "I wonder why."

"She broke off all contact with me and Rivkin. He didn't take it well."

So I gathered.

"Rivkin became increasingly... obsessed with Ziva. Picking and choosing missions solely for their proximity to her, even if she refused to acknowledge him. He began taking more time than necessary for his reconnaissance. His mission performance became more... erratic. Sloppy. Unprofessional. When we tried to... help him, he spurned our offer and went rogue. But not before downloading Ari's spy will."

"And you've been tracking him ever since," I finished. "For the intel he downloaded and the knowledge he had in his head. But when you finally found him, you needed Omaha to take him down. And me. Because using any resources from Alliance Intelligence, or from the Alliance in general, would make it more official. That's why this mission was a rush job and why the intel was so scant.

"I'm guessing you also let Hackett know that the OSD held Ari's will. Because you knew he'd tell me, and you knew I wouldn't let that slide. Not without getting word to Ziva first of what you were up to. You knew I wouldn't trust you to pass on the contents to Ziva after opening it yourself. Neither would she. You knew that she'd want to open it herself. And if you were there when she did so, then it would mean you were together. It's... holy shit, it's your sick idea of a family reunion, isn't it?"

For the third time, Triple-D was silent. That was all the answer I needed.

"You haven't learned a damn thing, have you?" I marvelled. "You're still using people to get what you want. No matter the cost, no matter who dies or suffers. Just like Cerberus."

For a moment, the cold glare flickered back to life in Triple-D's eyes.

"Yeah, that's right," I said, too angry to care about what a scary bastard he was—or, perhaps, because I knew what a scary bastard he was. "I've fought against Cerberus and worked with their agents. I've talked to the Illusive Man himself. I've cleaned up mess after mess after fucking mess. That's why I severed ties with them as soon as possible."

"The same way you severed ties with Alliance Intelligence," Triple-D nodded. "With me."

"It was just that one time," I nodded, "but that was enough. I saw enough to realize you'd lose your soul if you played that game long enough. Not all at once, mind you. Just bit by bit. And before long, you wouldn't even give a damn anymore."

"What you just said makes you the wisest and dumbest man I have ever met."

Coming from Triple-D, that was probably a compliment.

All of a sudden, I felt so... so tired. I guess I felt some anger and resentment towards him for all these years. For what Ziva said he'd done to her. For what he'd done to me. But if I'd known, _truly_ known, what he had done... maybe ignorance was bliss. If I knew then what I knew now, I probably would have exploded or burned out long before the Collectors ambushed me above Alchera's frozen wasteland. Which, come to think of it, kinda matched the blasted remnants of Triple-D's soul.

"So what happens now?" I asked.

"You return before anyone notices you're gone," Triple-D replied. "Try to get some sleep."

Sleep... I glanced at the chronometer in my omni-tool. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" I demanded.

"Don't worry," Triple-D assured me. "I've arranged for various circumstances to befall key individuals. Nothing drastic or permanent, mind you. Just enough to postpone the legal proceedings for a day."

"A day?" I repeated. "Like... a full day?"

"A day you can spend with whatever family or friends Hackett could contact who could arrive within that window of opportunity."

My mouth dropped. At least, I'm pretty sure my mouth dropped. I have this vague recollection of losing control of certain muscles in that general vicinity. "You... you did...?"

"I did."

"I... I... why?" I finally managed.

Triple-D was quiet for a minute. Then two. Finally, he gave his answer. "Because there was a time when my house was filled with the sound of my family laughing. You opened the door to that house again, however slight it might be. The least I could do is return the favour."

* * *

Part of me expected to get ambushed on the way back.

Maybe it would be a cop pulling me over for speeding, realizing who he or she had caught and arresting me. Dragging me into some precinct with omni-cuffs slapped over my wrists. Boy would that be embarrassing or what?

Or maybe some Alliance wetworks squad. Sent to intercept me, take me out in a blaze of bullets, then claim that the disgraced former Alliance soldier and Spectre who'd killed more batarians than the Butcher of Torfan had been killed trying to escape the implacable course of justice.

Or maybe TIMmy would send another hit-squad of Cerberus goons, all geared up with the best of weapons and matching hardsuits that effectively made them walking advertisements. Because a terrorist organization really, really had to work on brand awareness.

But nothing happened. Which gave me plenty of time to think about my conversation—and rant—with Triple-D.

I'd never really liked him. What little Ziva told me about him didn't exactly give me the warm and fuzzies. And actually working with him confirmed what a cold, manipulative bastard he was. You'd think that tonight's events wouldn't have changed anything.

Despite all that, I felt sorry for him.

It surprised me, too. But I did. Because what I'd said earlier about Triple-D being just like TIMmy wasn't entirely correct.

Don't get me wrong: there were a lot of similarities between the two. Both sought to elevate humanity's standing amongst—and, ideally, above—the other races. Both wanted humanity to acquire as much power and influence as possible, preferably at the expense of everyone else. Most importantly, both believed that if you truly wanted to accomplish your goals, sometimes you had to get your hands dirty. To go down into the trenches and sewers. To fight in the shadows. To spin web after web of intrigue, and pounce on anyone fool enough to get ensnared.

But there was a fundamental difference, one I hadn't seen until tonight. When I saw what lay within the normally inscrutable depths of Triple-D's eyes.

I saw pain. Pain and regret. Deep, aching, burning in its intensity. The kind that only came after years of suffering. Like a slow growing virus or cancer, growing and consuming all in its wake. It was very subtle. I would expect nothing less: you don't get to be in intelligence—whether as an asset, an agent or an officer—without picking up a little bit of the fine art of lying and dissembling. And Triple-D was a master at that, let there be no mistake.

However, I was no green-behind-the-ears rookie. I had spent years hiding and obfuscating my true thoughts and feelings beneath a facade. I knew how to recognize a mask, how to notice the cracks when they appeared. How to listen to my instincts. And my instincts told me that Eli David regretted the gulf that had grown between him and Ziva, his last living child. How, in his vision to make the Alliance a stronger and safer place for his family, he had systematically destroyed that which he sought to protect.

Maybe I was fooling myself. Maybe a leopard couldn't change his spots. Maybe Eli David had masterminded so many schemes and orchestrated so much misery and death that he could never atone for all his many sins.

But I liked to think that the fact that he was feeling repentant should mean something. I liked to think that one should at least try to repent for all your past mistakes, even if the prospect seemed so impossibly daunting. I liked to think that, despite everything I had seen and witnessed, I could still see the good in people.

There are worse habits to have, I suppose.

* * *

I didn't get much sleep.

First, I couldn't stop thinking of Triple-D. What a cruel, manipulative bastard he was. How he kept using people over and over and over again and kept trying to fix his screw-ups with more screw-ups which led to a perpetual cycle of screw-ups. There was a definition of insanity that came to mind, one that Triple-D should really consider.

Then I thought of Ziva. How she'd lost so many people who were close to her. After a while, she started wondering if Death was following her, killing everyone who got close to her. I know that because she once confessed it—over drinks. Plural. We'd just had a really tough series of exams. And were pretty sure we'd flunked them all royally—and wondered why her father hated her so much. Then she started mixing up Death and Triple-D, which wasn't that much of a stretch.

After that, I moved on to my father. He'd vanished when I was a kid. He did that a lot, growing up. Though he always came back with a wonderful story and a lesson or two or ten. But this time he vanished for good. I always wondered whether it was my fault. If it was something I did. If Little Me knew what Big Me knew now, I think Little Me would wonder if Dad left because I couldn't save everyone in the Bahak system.

At least I had my mother. Though I hadn't seen her in years. Only chatted with her a couple times. Well, there was that time when I needed some parental advice—yes, I know, shocker—and contacted her in Anderson's office. That was back when he was still a Councillor and suffering miserably. She helped me a lot. Never would have gotten as far as I had with Miranda without her sage council. I wondered what she'd say now. Wondered if she'd agree that I did everything I could. Wondered if she could still look at me and love me as her son.

And Ellie. My sister who wasn't really my sister yet was totally my sister. I hadn't been in touch with her for even longer than Mom. Even though we practically grew up together. Shared all our childhood ups and downs together. Played together—she was the genius doctor, I was the idiot patient. Things hadn't changed all that much, come to think of it. And yet, we hadn't talked in forever. I couldn't imagine what she was thinking. Why didn't I call? Was I okay? Had I changed? Was I really dead? If not, why didn't I call? Was I okay? Did I really betray the Alliance and her and everything I stood for and her? If not, why didn't I call? Was I okay? Huh, come to think of it, maybe I _could_ imagine what she was thinking.

Then there was Captain Awesome. Ellie's boyfriend—no, they were married now. Good. Ellie needed someone dependable in her life. Even if he was ridiculously perfect. And it was impossible to hate him for it because he was so genuinely nice and he truly, deeply loved her. Though I did make sure he wasn't using her. Which reminded her: I never did apologize for tying him up, dangling him from an apple tree and using my sniper rifle to shower him with applesauce until he swore Ellie wouldn't be another one-night stand.

And how 'bout Morgan? Geez, we used to be thick as thieves. Without the thieving. Unless it came to all things nerdy. Or geeky. Or possibly old-fashioned and positively antiquated, depending on who you talked to. But we didn't care. We were practically brothers. Brothers who'd drifted apart and hadn't seen each other in almost a decade. Barely exchanged e-mails.

And how 'bout the rest of my squad? The ones from the original Normandy—except for He Who Shall Not Be Named That Backstabbing Asshole Kaidan Oh I just named him didn't I?—and the new one. We'd been through so much together. Fighting geth, mercs, zombies, mechs and Collectors. Fighting, bleeding, learning, growing, healing and trusting each other through thick and thin. But then I stopped fighting. Turned myself in. That was the right thing to do, wasn't it? I didn't give up, did I?

Last, but certainly not least: Miranda. The smartest and most beautiful woman I had ever met. The woman I loved. I hope she knew that. I mean, I told her I loved her. But I hoped she believed that. Even after we parted ways.

Anyway, thinking about that kept me up all night. At least, that's the summary. Minus all the repetition. And circular arguments. And bizarre meanderings and twists and turns.

Morning came. I was escorted to breakfast. Scrambled eggs made from egg powdered concentrate. A somewhat meaty approximation of bacon. Bread—apparently toasted in an experiment to test the strength of krogan teeth. Milk. Choking down breakfast was even harder than usual because afterwards I would finally get to see my family again.

If they wanted to see me, that is.

The churning turmoil in my stomach made it really hard to finish breakfast and actually keep it down. I hadn't been that nervous since... well, that was it. I couldn't remember. I did know that I was sweating. Actually sweating. The last time I sweated, there was gunfire involved. And blood. Lots of gunfire and blood.

But I finally finished breakfast. James escorted me to a small room. I approached the door.

It slid open. Mom and Ellie were waiting inside.

I stopped in the doorway.

We stared at each other.

Time stopped as my wonderfully fertile mind promptly ran through all the possible scenarios, each one getting worse and worse...

...

...

They jumped to their feet and enveloped me in a bone-crushing hug, Ellie beating Mom by a fraction of a second. And all my troubles melted away.

I spent the rest of the day with my family and some of my oldest friends. It wasn't possible for me to see everyone I wanted to, of course. But the people I _did_ see were those I hadn't seen in years. We talked and chatted. Reminisced about old times. Brought each other up to speed on everything that had happened since we last met.

And the room was filled with the sound of my family laughing.


End file.
